


my wings too wild (to clip and cage around me)

by MercutioLives



Series: Traveling Song [1]
Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Magic, Blood Magic, Escape, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Polyamory, Polyfidelity, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 10:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11758380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/pseuds/MercutioLives
Summary: How do two murderers and a dead man escape from Verona? According to Mercutio, it only takes a bit of magic, a bit of mischief, and a lot of wine.





	my wings too wild (to clip and cage around me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tveckling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tveckling/gifts).



> Normally, Benvolio/Mercutio(/Tybalt) is my hard notp. However, I decided to go against my own preferences in order to write something different for my very dear friend Anniella (tveckling), who deserves all the fic. I still don't ship it, but this was actually pretty fun to write! There wasn't quite as much poly action as I had originally intended, but I still rather like the way it came out.
> 
> The title is from "[Runaway](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KyYSkHyUiDw)" by Ryn Weaver, which I was more or less playing on repeat as I wrote this.

"A plague on both your houses!" Mercutio spat the words raggedly, clutching at his bleeding midsection as though his cupped hands might be enough to hold the blood inside him. He watched Tybalt drop his sword and run -  _ That's right, you coward. Run! _ \- and struggled against Benvolio, despite his having asked him to help him inside. A pained sob tore from his lips, and he repeated his curse. Romeo's expression was one of utter horror, and it was the last thing he saw before being ushered inside of an empty tavern whose proprietor scurried into hiding, unwilling to get involved in whatever madness had brought the two young men inside.

Benvolio lowered Mercutio to the floor as gently as he could, worry lining his usually impassive features. Blood from Mercutio's wound had stained his doublet and hands, and gave him the appearance of being wounded himself. In all, it was a gruesome sight. Mercutio's breath came in quick, shallow pants, and his eyes were screwed shut against the pain throbbing through him. There was nothing to be done but try and slow the bleeding, which Benvolio attempted with his own hands for want of anything else. A soft, rasping whisper met his ears, not quite sounding like words, yet sounding enough like them that he looked up. Mercutio's lips were moving, but what issued forth was nothing Benvolio recognized.

"No, no, no. Mercutio, what are you doing?"

The alien syllables increased in volume, their cadence full of intent but disturbing in their wrongness. Benvolio had never witnessed magic being performed, although he knew that Mercutio possessed the gift. A pale, shaking hand lifted and began to paint unfamiliar characters upon the wooden floor of the tavern. Mercutio's eyes were still closed, the chant continuing without pause; his hand (the left, for Mercutio was, to the discomfort of many around him, left-handed) seemed to be moving under a power quite apart from that of its owner. Benvolio wanted to turn away, but he could not. He knelt, transfixed, and bore silent, horrified witness.

Though magic as a whole was met with suspicion in Verona, blood magic was outright condemned. Not long after his rise to power, the Prince - Mercutio's own uncle - had passed a law banning its use. Benvolio should have known that such things as laws could never hold Mercutio under thrall. He did what he liked, and being the Prince's heir, had no fear of harsh rebuke. Even so, there was little doubt in Benvolio's mind that even Mercutio would be punished for this. It ought to have been enough to push him to stop his friend, but in so doing, he knew Mercutio would die. No doctor or surgeon could fix the wound Tybalt had struck. That was plain to see.

Mercutio sucked in a sharp gasp, eyes flying briefly open, and then he was still. Frighteningly still. Benvolio's hands hovered over him, but he did not dare to touch. Only the faintest movement stirred Mercutio's chest, but it was enough to see that he was not dead. The bleeding looked to have ceased, and before Benvolio's very eyes, the wound began to knit itself together, leaving behind only an ugly red scar visible where the doublet was torn. Mercutio stirred and his eyes opened partway.

"Ben." His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. Benvolio leaned closer to hear. "Listen to me. I cannot stay, and neither can you. Find Tybalt. My uncle would see him executed for my murder, for that must be what you've witnessed. Find him, and bring him out of the city with you. Do you understand? No one must know. Do not even risk confession, and do not tell Romeo, no matter what he may ask you."

Benvolio hesitated, and for it Mercutio grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him close. Though his strength was drained, Benvolio was caught enough by surprise that no resistance was offered.

"Do you understand?" he repeated, his blue eyes meeting Benvolio's brown ones, alight with desperation. Mutely, Benvolio nodded. "Good. Go now, and don't go looking for me. Find Tybalt. I'll find you both later."

Benvolio leant forward and caught Mercutio's lips in a kiss, which was returned, and he parted to see Mercutio's grim smile. It hurt to leave him lying there, but he had to find Tybalt before it was too late. He went outside to find Romeo still there, blood on his hands, and at his feet lay Tybalt, a bloody sword a foot from both of them. Romeo stood above him, his face as empty as Tybalt's. Benvolio held in a sob of despair at the sight, and ran to his cousin's side.

"What have you done? They'll kill you for this!" Romeo didn't seem to hear at first, though after a handful of seconds too many, he turned his head toward Benvolio.

"I hadn't meant… It just _happened_ …"

"I know, I know. But you have to listen to me. The Prince will have your head for this, you hear?" No sooner did he say so, that he heard the tramp of soldiers' boots against the cobbled street of the plaza. It was too late. Both of them had blood upon them, and Tybalt lay dead at their feet. The city guard marched into the square, followed by Prince of Verona himself astride a chestnut horse. The resemblance to Mercutio was plain, though for all Mercutio's changeable moods, never had there been such a look of pure fury as was worn by his uncle at this moment.

"What is the meaning of this? Tybalt of the Capulets, slain, and the two of you with his blood on your hands. We know you both. Romeo, old Montague's heir, and his cousin Benvolio. We have seen you many times in the company of our nephew, and where is he?"

Benvolio heard his own voice before he realized that he had spoken.

"Dead, Your Grace. Murdered by Tybalt, and avenged."

" _ Avenged _ , you say? By whose authority? Not ours, for he was our blood, and the vengeance was ours to take. Was it you, boy, who stole it from us?" Romeo looked for a moment as though he was about to say something, but Benvolio spoke first. He was no mastermind - that had always been Mercutio's role - but he had to do something to protect his cousin.

"Yes, Your Grace. I confess it, and beg your forgiveness. For you see, the love I bore Mercutio far surpassed that of friendship. I confess that it drove me to fury, and with that sword sought revenge that was not mine to take. My cousin had no part in it; the blood upon him came from me."

The Prince was silent for a long time. The soldiers, too, stood silent. Not a sound could be heard save the breathing of those gathered, and the occasional whicker of the Prince's horse. Then a gasp, a cough, and the body of Tybalt stirred. Everyone moved back a step, all in near-unison, as the dead man sat up and looked around. His face was pale, and the wound that had been there was now gone, scarred together in a way that only Benvolio recognized. Relief flooded him, followed fast by fear. How could such a miracle possibly be explained? He had no intention of trying to do so himself.

"I was dead," came Tybalt's gruff voice, breaking the spell that had kept them all transfixed. "I know it. I felt…" He looked up, and for the first time noticed all the men who stood around him. An attempt was made to stand, but his legs refused to support him. Not one among the others moved to help him,  and he didn't seem to expect it. Benvolio watched his expression morph from confusion to horror: he was remembering what he had done. It was no secret, at least to Benvolio, that Mercutio had also loved Tybalt. Benvolio didn't quite share that love, though there had been occasions on which the three of them had shared one bed. No one knew of this arrangement, even if Mercutio would have been all too happy to inform anyone who expressed a curiosity. He only refrained out of respect for the other two.

Benvolio's eyes met Tybalt's, the latter's asking a question his lips could not:  _ Is Mercutio alive? _ His nod was slight, less an actual nod than a vague incline of the head. The relief was clear, though Benvolio couldn't manage to summon any kind of sympathy for him. The fact remained that Tybalt's blade had brought Mercutio too close to death, and twice had forced him to use magic he ought not have meddled with. These were his thoughts as two city guardsmen closed iron shackles over his wrists and led him away.

Benvolio's cell and Tybalt's were adjacent to one another, and in the separating wall was a small chink through which they could whisper. This they did, for lack of anyone else with whom to speak. They weren't permitted visitors, which led Benvolio to believe that the Prince wasn't considering execution for either of them. Prisoners sentenced to die were allowed visits from loved ones and a priest, or so he'd heard.

"You know what happened." It was not a question, Benvolio noted.

"Yes." He didn't know if or how much Tybalt knew about Mercutio's magical ability, so he was reluctant to say much.

"Well? I was dead, I know I was. I should not be alive, and even if that wound  _ was  _ survivable, it shouldn't have healed as quickly as it did. So tell me, Montague. What. Happened." Tybalt's voice reached an uncomfortable volume, which caused Benvolio's stomach to drop with fear. He kept his own voice at a whisper.

"...I can't. Not now. There's no telling who might be listening."

That was the end of their conversation. They kept to themselves until a guard came down to bring them their supper. Benvolio frowned at the gruel and heel of stale bread, nothing like the fine food to which he was accustomed, but he ate it anyway. As he picked at the bread, crumbling it between his fingers, he studied his surroundings. They were grim and bleak as he supposed any dungeon must be. The ceiling was low, the stone walls damp; the rushes scattered across the floors of the cells whispered with every movement. None of the cells around him were occupied, save one, but he suspected its inhabitant might be dead. Perhaps the Prince had in him enough pity not to throw them in with the rest of Verona's condemned, or perhaps it was merely coincidence.

There was a small window on the far wall which let in a pale shaft of sunlight during the day, nowhere near enough to see by unless one's eyes had already adjusted to the dark - and even then, it required much squinting. In the dead of night, Benvolio could scarcely make out any details, but from what he could gather, there weren't many details to make out. Damp stone, black iron, miserable people. He sat with his back against the stone wall and shut his eyes, willing sleep to come.

After a while, he managed to doze, but the sound of footsteps jerked him awake. It wasn't the steps of a soldier, he judged: far too quick and light. Perhaps a priest? The figure to whom the footsteps belonged was indeed cowled in the habit of a friar. He held a torch clutched in one hand, but on that hand, the light glinted off of what appeared to be a ring. No holy men that he knew of wore rings. The stranger threw back his hood to reveal no priest or friar, but the dark curls, blue eyes, and cheeky grin of Mercutio. Benvolio's heart leapt in his chest, then dropped in fear. Mercutio held a finger to his lips.

"How did you get in here?" Tybalt demanded in a raspy whisper. Benvolio could hear the relief therein, poorly masked by suspicion. Tybalt had never been especially good at letting himself admit to feelings, but they were obvious enough all the same. Mercutio shrugged and slipped the torch into an empty sconce on the wall.

"Bit of magic, bit of mischief, a lot of wine." From one voluminous sleeve, Mercutio produced a ring of heavy keys. It took several failures before he tossed them aside and muttered a spell at the locks instead; they opened with a soft  _ click _ . Neither Benvolio nor Tybalt moved when the doors came open, and Mercutio rolled his eyes.

"Well? We haven't got all day, the wine'll be wearing off soon. I rather wouldn't have to contend with a half-dozen hungover guards. Or my uncle, for that matter." Tybalt was the first up and out, with Benvolio following hesitantly behind. If they were caught, it was sure to be their heads on the chopping block. The guards were indeed drunkenly asleep at their small wooden table, dice and coins scattered around haphazardly. The three escapees held their breath as they crept past, and didn't dare to let it go until they had turned into a dark, narrow corridor. They didn't see anyone as they followed various labyrinthine passageways through the palace, trusting Mercutio's knowledge of its halls and hiding places to keep them safe.

At length, they came to a small door with rusty hinges. On the wall adjacent hung an old tapestry depicting some ancestor or another of Mercutio's, watching them severely like a disapproving saint on the window of a church. Benvolio crossed himself silently as he passed it, though he wasn't entirely sure why. The hinges squeaked when Mercutio opened the door, but there was no one but the three of them to hear it. It led out into the palace orchard, which was far enough from the castle gate that the likelihood of any of the palace guard being nearby was low.

Nevertheless, they continued to walk in silence until they came to the low wall surrounding the orchard. Mercutio was easily the best climber of the three, and was up atop the wall as quickly and nimbly as a cat. There, he waited to help Tybalt and Benvolio clamber up, neither of them with quite as much grace. Once they were over, they broke into a run. None of them needed to confer with the other two as to where they ran, for they all shared the same notion: they needed to get out of the city. Given time to think, all three of them might have come up with reasons not to do so, but they had neither the time nor the luxury to weigh any other options.

The streets were mostly empty, save the invariable drunk or prostitute. Mercutio paused only a moment to dispose of his disguise in a rank-smelling alleyway, but beyond that they did not stop. Benvolio brought up the rear of their small band, and his eyes never wavered from Mercutio's form ahead of him. On a less dire occasion, Mercutio would be laughing and singing as he ran, as drunk on the thrill of trouble as on wine. Romeo would be with them, laughing too, and Benvolio would become caught up in it himself before long. He didn't let himself think how it would never be like that again.

After what felt like hours of running, they came upon the city walls and slowed to a stop. The gatehouse was lit by a single candle, and a pair of guards standing in front of it. Mercutio swore under his breath, and muttered something about having gotten the rotation schedule mixed up.

"Nothing for it," he said, and strode right up to the guard. Benvolio's first instinct was to call him back, but his fear of being caught choked the words in his throat. He watched as the guard laid eyes on Mercutio, who to his knowledge was dead. The ensuing encounter was quick and confusing: Mercutio performed a rapid series of arcane gestures, wisps of pale green light  trailing from his fingertips. The guard stood and stared as though transfixed, and when the light faded in the air, he relaxed as though nothing at all was the matter. Mercutio leaned in to speak to the guard, who nodded and remained unruffled.

Mercutio gestured for the two of them to move, and when Benvolio got up close, he caught a brief glimpse of what appeared to be a pained grimace on Mercutio's face. He chose not to question it, if only in the interest of keeping quiet. If they managed to escape, there would be time enough for talking later.

The guard made no move to stop them as they walked through the city gates. It was bizarre, but no more so than anything else he'd seen that day. Still, it didn't stop a chill from dancing up his spine. The farther they moved from the city, the more noticeable their shared muteness became: in particular Mercutio, who was known to say anything simply for the sake of filling up a silence. Tybalt, by contrast, looked quite at home with the quiet, but Benvolio noticed that he, too, was sneaking concerned glances here and there when he believed that no one was looking. If the three of them walked a little closer together after that, nothing was mentioned.

"Where are we going?" Benvolio whispered after what had to have been at least an hour of walking. He couldn't claim to ever have transgressed Verona's walls, so the surroundings were entirely new. Mercutio looked over, startled, as though he had forgotten either he or Tybalt were there.

"South," he replied curtly, the single word seeming to say, _ the less you know, the better _ . Benvolio reached out and took Mercutio's hand. It was clammy, though still as icy as ever, and lay limp in his for a moment, before it closed around his fingers. Mere hours ago, that hand had been tracing forbidden symbols in blood. He squeezed his eyes shut to banish the memory.

They walked and walked until they finally came to a small tavern, a lit candle in the largest of its windows. Benvolio could have wept with relief when Mercutio stopped them in front of the tavern door. His legs ached, his lungs burned, and he had a persistent stitch in his side. The inside of the tavern was warm and just crowded enough that nobody would pay them any mind. Mercutio haggled with the old woman who ran the place and eventually bought them a room and supper. The food was welcome, the chance to lie down more so. The mattresses were little better than sacks stuffed with straw, but at the moment, it was the most comfortable thing Benvolio had ever lain upon. He was just closing his eyes when he felt the press of a familiar body against his back.

He rolled over to see Mercutio's face, grimmer than it ought to be. Just beyond him, Tybalt slept on the other mattress, the severity smoothed out of his features, his limbs flung out in a manner unexpected of someone so perpetually tense. His attention, however, was focused on Mercutio. His eyes - the bluest Benvolio had ever seen, hinting at some strain of foreign blood otherwise forgotten - bore no trace of his usual mirth. Sweat beaded near his hairline and his upper lip, and his face was ashen. His every muscle was tense as a bowstring.

"You'll never get any sleep if you don't relax a bit," Benvolio murmured, tucking an errant curl behind Mercutio's ear. "God, it sounds strange to tell  _ you  _ that. Usually it's  the other way 'round."

The remark won him a faint chuckle, but nothing true: Mercutio was distracted by whatever thoughts ran rampant through his head, and it was clear that talking would do nothing to cure him of it. He took a different tack instead, pressing his lips, cautiously but insistently, to Mercutio's. Only moments passed before the kiss was reciprocated, perhaps not as fiery as normal, but neither was it reluctant. For all that, he made no effort to intensify it or transform it into anything beyond mere kissing.

"You're exhausted." Mercutio didn't disagree, but pressed his forehead to Benvolio's with a soft sigh. Clammy as it was, Benvolio didn't flinch or draw away. Rather, he wound an arm around Mercutio's waist and tugged him closer.

"Too much magic in too short a time. It doesn't come from nowhere, after all." It was apparent that he was trying to sound nonchalant, but the strain was audible. Across the small room, Tybalt shifted, muttering in his sleep. Benvolio and Mercutio both glanced over, then looked at each other before dissolving into poorly-stifled laughter. They didn't want to wake Tybalt, but the attempt to keep quiet proved futile. Instead of snapping at them to be quiet, however, he merely stood up and crossed the room, nudging them both aside to curl up (catlike, Benvolio barely kept himself from saying) against Mercutio's back.

It was a tight fit for all of them, but not a one complained. It was warm and comforting, and Benvolio was relieved to see the tightness in Mercutio's face drain away as he drifted off to sleep. Sunrise would require them to keep running to their unknown destination, but that was a worry for tomorrow. Benvolio buried his face against Mercutio's shoulder, closed his eyes, and let sleep wash over him.


End file.
